Sandy Slaga

Slaga Law

I’m thrilled to announce that Slaga Law is alive and well. The Slaga Shingle went up last month, and it’s a bumpy ride, so I’m keeping my seatbelt fastened!

I’m spending most of my time networking, getting substantive law and administrative details in place and attending appropriate continuing legal education classes. At least once a day I have the phone company check my line to ensure it’s wired and working.

I’ll be launching a new website and blog in the next couple months. I’m excited to be working on this project with Sheryl Sisk Schelin of The Inspired Solo and Blawg in a Box.

The decision to open a solo practice in my home was a long and difficult one. In retrospect, I was my biggest enemy by allowing fear to skew what I knew in my heart I was being called to do. And so I took a leap of faith, due in many respects to the generosity of wisdom and encouragement of colleagues I’ve never met. Chuck Newton. Sheryl Sisk Schelin. Susan Cartier Liebel. Carolyn Elefant. Nathan Dosch. Julie Harper. Grant Griffiths. Rick Georges. Thank you all.

It’s 2:00 p.m. Time to call the phone company.

The Bird and I

Twenty-four. Pounds. That would be the turkey that is currently floating in a brine in a Home Depot bucket which is sitting atop a wrought iron table on my deck. Yes, it’s covered. No, I don’t expect it to be carried off by small animals.

My previous record was eighteen pounds. Twenty-four will mean that baby has to be prepped and in the oven by 7:30 a.m. in order to be sitting front and center by 2:00 p.m. Which means coffee and coherence by 6:30 a.m. to ensure enough lead time for proper bird prep.

There is no holiday better than Thanksgiving. No gift shopping. No holiday cards. No do-we-open-gifts-Christmas-Eve-or-Day? No guilting The Teenagers into Mass that’s not on a Sunday.

And no argument about what to serve. It’s turkey and all that goes with it. My turkey. My meal. My way. I consider this a small sacrifice on the part of my family in exchange for a day of an even-tempered menopausal woman and a from-scratch meal fit for the gods of home cooking.

Enjoy!

Crotchety Old Lady Alive and Kicking

The Crotchety Old Lady and I have been going at it the past several months about this whole solo law thing. She poked. I ignored. She prodded. I told her she was a few shots shy of a decent mega latte.

Well, the Crotchety One and her bony finger are on a warm beach somewhere, basking in the rays of their victory. My ribs are recovering from the months of jabbing. And I’m back to getting some sleep and a decent cup of morning java.

I’m launching a solo law practice and joining the ranks of home office lawyers, also affectionately referred to by Chuck Newton as Third Wavers, Spare Room Tycoons and Carpet Commuters.

Stay tuned!

Cornfields, Cher & Letting Go

Corn. Lots of it. Early morning in late August, and we are en route to my son’s freshman year in college. And there’s corn. Complete with tassels. You could spot drop a teenager into the middle of one of those fields and it’d be months before he’d surface.

My husband’s behind the wheel of our 1997 Jeep Grand Cherokee since it’s the only one of our vehicles big enough for the task at hand. My son is semi-conscious in the front passenger seat.

A mega latte and I are in the right rear passenger seat next to my son’s laptop and a 3-drawer plastic storage chest filled with enough undershirts and socks to keep him out of the dorm laundry room for at least 2 weeks. Boxes are piled behind me along with the must-have 27″ flat screen TV which will be used, I’ve been assured, for educational purposes only. The upside is that I’m packed so tightly I’ll be sure to survive a rollover.

I’m iPodding Cher’s “Do You Believe in Life After Love” and Pure Prairie League’s “Amy” and looking at the cornfields. Not because the songs have anything to do with this moment but because if I blast them loudly enough, I’m blissfully distracted from the anvil on my chest and the lump in my throat.

I’ve been thinking about this day for months. One more chance to have our son as a captive audience to the wisdom that only a mother can give. I let an hour pass, listening to father and son do their man talk. I sip my latte and gather my thoughts.

The chatter ends. I let several more minutes pass in silence. When he’s good and relaxed, he’ll be more receptive.

“Caleb,” I begin, my voice quivering. “There are some things I want to say ….”

My husband turns and gestures. I glance forward.

My son is asleep.

I flash back to the first time I left him with a babysitter. His first day of kindergarten in his navy blue uniform shorts and white short-sleeved polo shirt, wearing a backpack almost as big as he and holding a role of contact paper.

More Cher and Pure Prairie League.

“You guys could go get my books while Ivan and I are setting up the room,” my son suddenly announces.

I snap out of my precious memories moment.

“Sure, son. Not only are we just waiting for another opportunity to open the checkbook, but please, let us pick up and deliver, too.”

I’d read in one of those annoying “letting go” books that you’d know when it was time to leave your college freshman on move-in day. You’d look around the room after unpacking and organizing closet space and drawers, which is a special mother-son bonding thing, and you’d see your child looking back at you. No words. Just The Look.

I wasn’t sure if I’d recognize The Look. I was used to giving it, not being the recipient.

So after I’d rearranged the closet and drawers he’d just organized, and I’m using that term very loosely, I looked across the room. He and his roommate were figuring out where to put the micro-fridge. I caught his eye. And I knew.

I’m fine. We’ll be seeing him in five weeks.

Now where the hell is my iPod?

C-Day Minus Three: Dorm Essentials

Choosing which items to buy and/or pack for my son’s rookie foray into post-secondary university housing should be simple. The items should be the ones I, his mother, choose.

After all, who knows better what he should have than I, his mother, myself a veteran of communal living quarters in the mid to late ’70s at Purdue University. That would be the same Purdue of Len Dawson, Bob Griese, Mike Phipps, Dave Butz, Drew Brees and Kyle Orton. And you can bet your spiral pass that those boys’ mothers chose their dorm essentials, too.

Last night my husband and my son’s father, who happen to be the same man, attempted to point out not only the errors in my choices but also the flaws in my reasoning. “I was an eighteen-year-old boy going away to college,” my husband declared, “and I know what he needs and what he’ll be branded a girlie man for having.”

This is a misguided primal need exhibited by fathers in order to protect their sons from the girlie man label and keep them steeped in the manly man category. Grunting and back slapping are optional.

And so it went.

A fan for cooling and proper air circulation. Won’t need one, quipped my husband. The dorm is air-conditioned. The fact that the thermostat is controlled by the university housing czar and that when winter comes could be set at 78 degrees is irrelevant.

A container for Q-tips. A cute but manly one that can sit atop his dresser along with assorted toiletries. Nope. A waste. Store brand sandwich-size baggies will do the job. Delirium. My son living out of baggies? Not happening.

Febreeze to simulate partially pleasant odors in his room as needed, particularly before a visit from parents. What for? Let him open the window and fan a towel to suck in the fresh air.

Face lotion. He can use body lotion, my husband insisted. No, he can’t. He needs special face lotion so he isn’t slathering additional muck on his expensive dermatologist-groomed face.

Antimicrobial pillow and mattress protectors to ward off foreign pathogens. Unnecessary. It’s like day care, my husband said. Expose the kid to as many germs as possible. It’ll build up his immunity. Over my dead menopausal body.

Storage organizers for his closet and drawers. To have a place for everything and keep everything in its place. What fantasy was I indulging, my husband gibed. This was the kid who has one storage receptacle. That being the floor space in front of his closet. I shot my husband The Look and added a multitiered storage cart to my shopping list.

But to keep his testosterone from hyperventilating, I’ll pass on the cucumber melon shower gel.

C-Day Minus Four

My eighteen-year-old son leaves for college in four days. Actually, his father, sister and I are leaving with him. We, however, will be returning home.

Preparations are going as well as can be expected.

My son is counting the days with a gusto that only eighteen-year-old hormones in anticipation of no curfew can exhibit.

His father is in recovery from calculating tuition, room and board and books.

I am trying to maintain some sort of balance between the blithering, menopausal no-it’s-too-soon-he’s-my-baby mom and the you-taught-him-well-now-let-him-fly mother.

And so I am preparing for his flight.

Since he’ll be three hours deep into the cornfields of west central Illinois with only a Walmart, KMart and Walgreens to which to turn for civilization, I am seeing to it that the boy has what his mother says he needs.

Ground zero is the basement ping pong table. Six open cardboard boxes await my packing instructions.

The extra-long sheet set which has, of course, been freshly laundered since how could anyone think of sleeping on sheets fresh out of the wrapper. One bunny soft blue blanket which he’ll need when it gets cold, he just doesn’t know it yet. A fluffy pad to give some ooomph to the piece of cardboard that university housing calls a mattress. And his old comforter because a new one won’t have embedded dog hair and cigar ashes to remind him of home.

Shower flip flops so at least his feet remain free of communicable diseases. Enough shampoo, shower gel, razors, deodorant and body spray to make it through Thanksgiving or my first visit, whichever comes first.

One large jar of peanut butter and an extra large bag of Tostitos (don’t ask) for when he sleeps through breakfast. Or lunch. Or supper.

Other assorted items which I decide between now and Saturday that he needs.

And those items which his father can see to it that he gets because I’m the mother and I refuse to acknowledge his need for such things.

Stay tuned.

Transatlantic Teenagers

I’ve never been to Europe. My husband hasn’t been to Europe since traveling with his German born-and-raised parents to visit family when he was thirteen.

Be that as it may, we decided to give our children an opportunity neither of us had.

The Teenagers are on a thirteen day tour of Europe with a school group. Twenty-one teenagers. Three chaperones. One tour guide. Germany. Italy. Switzerland. Paris. For fun. No grandparents and second cousins to visit. Just hormones and a legal drinking age of 16 for beer and wine and 18 for spirits.

Day 3:

I arrive home to a voice mail from my husband, who’s in Boston on business, sounding the alarm. His online check reveals that the 17-year-old’s checking account is down $330 in two days. The itinerary shows the group to be in Munich.

Quite certain that my two years of college German thirty years ago won’t cut it, I call my mother-in-law who lives in Connecticut and ask her to attempt contact with my daughter at the hotel in Munich. She calls back to confirm that the voice at the other end speaks English and that the group is just checking into the hotel.

I call. I hear the hotel clerk announce to a packed lobby of teenagers that “Hannah’s mother is calling.”

“Oh my gawd, I can’t believe my mom is calling.” I can feel the transatlantic eye roll.

No big deal about the $330. Her digital camera broke, so she just had to buy a new one. Uh huh. Oh and could we advance a few hundred out of her next paycheck?

As an aside, I ask why we haven’t heard from her brother or her before now. Like, to let us know they arrived safely two days ago? Pffft. She just hasn’t had time. I ask how her brother is. Fine, she thinks, but she really doesn’t “hang” with him so she’s not sure.

Day 4:

On arriving home from a relaxing dinner out, my husband and I hear a frantic voice mail from the 18-year-old. “Are you there? Could somebody pick up? I need money! You must put money in my checking account! Like now!”

I dial the number of the hotel in Italy. On the other end of the line is an Italian gentleman who speaks no English but has a wife who speaks German. He attempts to ask me, in broken German, if I speak German and if I can call back later to speak with his wife. My repeatedly shouting my son’s name, that I am his mother and that I am calling from THE UNITED STATES gets me a loud click.

A couple hours later my son calls saying his account needs funds. Cuban cigars and “a few hits” of Jack and Coke later, he finds his budget in need. And, he will need additional beverages, particularly over the next two days. It’s his turn to room with the classmate no one wants.

I remark that a few cigars can’t be that much. Well, the cigars come in a box, I am informed. And they’re Cuban. To the tune of 65 Euros or roughly 90 dollars. For Cuban suicide sticks that stink up his clothes.

Jack and Coke, I learn, is Jack Daniels and Coca-Cola.

Germany. Over 1300 German breweries, many of whom have been brewing beer since the Reinheitsgebot was enacted in 1516. And the boy is drinking Jack and Coke.

Day 5:

The 18-year-old calls to make sure we’ve deposited his paycheck that I, his mother, picked up from his summer employer. He comments on “the price of stuff” and asks if I’m having a good time without his sister and him.

Day 9:

The 17-year-old calls saying she accidentally broke her father’s suitcase and bought a new pink one to replace it. Pink because that’s her color. Wants to know if we’ll reimburse her since it wasn’t her fault that her dad’s “cheap” suitcase didn’t hold up to her TLC. And he won’t mind using a pink suitcase for business trips, will he?

She also alerts me to the fact that she may still have bloodshot eyes Friday when she returns. She had a little to drink and threw up. But don’t worry, she says. She’s learned her lesson.

Day 10:

The 17-year-old calls to announce that she found the t-shirt she bought for her dad at the bottom of her back pack. But before she found it she bought a hat since she didn’t want to come home without a gift. So could I put more money in her account for the hat and the pink suitcase?

The 18-year-old is evidently otherwise occupied since I’ve not heard from him since Day 5.

4,000 miles. $6,000.

Cuban cigars, Jack and Coke, bloodshot eyes and a pink suitcase.

Makes a mother proud.

High School Limbo

Growing up Catholic, there were rules, and there were mysteries. Rules were things like Thou Shall Not Have Impure Thoughts. For the majority of the seventh grade, this was no easy task.

“But Sister,” one of my classmates wondered aloud, “what if you can’t help it? Is it still a sin?”

“Yes!” Sister Antonia barked. “A rule is a rule. If you break it, it’s a sin. And the only way to remove the sin is to go to confession and make a good Act of Contrition.”

Mysteries were something else. If Sister Antonia didn’t have a good explanation for something, the answer always was, “It’s a mystery.”

Take baptism. The rule said that only people who were baptized could get into heaven.

“But Sister,” we queried, “What happens if a two week old baby is dies? And, and the parents didn’t get the baby baptized yet? And, and you know, a baby can’t commit a sin, right Sister? But the baby can’t go to heaven ’cause it’s not baptized, right? Does the baby go to hell? Cause it’s not the baby’s fault it wasn’t baptized. So, where does the baby go, Sister?”

“We-e-ell,” Sister Antonia drawled through her thick rimless glasses, “that, children, is a mystery. God has a special place called Limbo for those babies.”

Limbo was a fuzzy place somewhere between heaven and hell. It was a nice enough place, but you didn’t make it to heaven. And you didn’t get to see God. Only people in heaven got to see God. So you just kind of floated around ad infinitum with all the other unbaptized babies.

The eighteen-year-old has been in high school limbo since last Friday. He finished semester exams, but the graduation ceremony and diploma don’t happen until this Thursday. So he’s designated this period as a sacred holding pattern during which he should have no obligations. No alarm. No curfew. No chores. No summer job search.

Jack Daniels and I conferred late into the evening. I emerged primed to engage the mind and will of an eighteen-year-old son in limbo with that of a fifty-one-year-old menopausal mother.

Parenting has its rules and its mysteries. I’m negotiating these next few days with both. Sister Antonia would be proud.

Agh! Gotta Get Goals Challenge

I tried covering my ears and singing “La La La La La” but I can still hear Crotchety Old Lady snarling at me to shake the dust out of my neurotransmitters and get with the Gotta Get Goals challenge.

Solo Dreamer tagged me, so of course I’ve spent considerable time checking out his goals as well as those of a few others I admire. Damn. My goals need some exercise.

Like Chuck Newton, I am not fond of goals. Correction. I’m not too fond of goals right now.

Age twenty-two was a fun time to have goals. Age fifty-one, not so much.

Newly married without kids. Fun time to have goals. Twenty-eight years married, seven years away from law with a son and daughter entering college. Hard to work up the same fun and excitement.

But.

The Crotchety One and her bony finger are poking, pointing and tsking. “Get over it, babycakes.”

If you’re looking for wild and crazy, look elsewhere.

These are my goals. And I’m only listing five. And I can do that, ’cause it said so in the rules.

1. To love myself just as I am, just for today. I considered adding a footnote for clarity, but it would be more accurately labeled an appendix, so I dropped it.

2. To have the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. This actually counts as three, right?

3. Live one day at a time. Or one hour at a time, as the situation warrants.

4. Continue to heal spiritually, emotionally and physically until it’s my turn on the mortuary marquee.

5. Live each day as the gift that it is.

Whew. Ok, Crotchety, now take the night off.

Taking a Risk in Plain View

Sherrie Sisk’s guest post at Susan Carter Liebel’s blog, Build a Solo Practice, LLC, spoke to me. We’re talking, “Girlfriend, I’m talking to you.”

Sherrie’s conflicted feelings about starting a solo law practice were met by the sound of her own voice beckoning. “Yes, but … I really, really want this.” And Sherrie responded with the courage it takes to say, “Yes, I can do this. Yes, I trust myself.”

I’m on the same journey, but hell, I’m bringing up the rear. We’re talking the dust at the end of the rear. We’re talking layers, nay years of layers, of dust in the neurotransmitters.

Yet in the corners lives Crotchety Old Lady with a bony finger. And she’s poking me in all manner of bodily places, but usually at about rib number seven. “Come on, honey, do it! Whaddya waiting for? Whaddya want, a formal invitation?”

Well, a lot less debt and The Teenagers’ college paid for would be nice. A fully-equipped office with a “serenity” decor would be peachy. As would a full appointment book, intact client list and six months’ worth of overhead in the bank.

The Crotchety One and her bony finger have a good snort and guffaw. And the pokes continue. This is making it increasingly difficult to sleep or have a decent cup of morning java.

The more I resist the risk, the harder the bony finger pokes. If I’m looking for divine guidance, I think it’s been here awhile. Damn, that rib is getting sore.